Meditation for Troubled Times

  Why is it important in times of turmoil to maintain a calm attitude? Is calmness sometimes just a sign of indifference? I wonder about this myself.
   I am noticing that if I read a news story where the headline is very excited and has a great deal of judgment behind it, I will tend to get agitated or excited myself. But one of the interesting things I also notice is that it tends to make me a more constricted person, not 'passionate' at all. Contrary to what some might think, I actually believe that getting agitated over others' emotions, or becoming 'swept away' in a general sentiment around me, only makes me feel tight and narrow. And more importantly, it doesn't give me the space or room I need to breathe and think clearly on my own.
   I have to confess that I am not much of a news reader, and it's only been in the last few weeks that I have noticed a lot of political stories in the news, particularly online. As much as I have sometimes enjoyed the political rallying, I also get a sense that things change quickly, and there is no need for me to stick to one thing that arises, when it is part of an unfolding series of events. I am starting to feel that it's better to take my time and try to figure out what all this media really means, rather than allowing my emotions to get riled up over what might be only one of many conditions that are unfolding.
   Meditation is something that I think would greatly benefit myself and others at this time. I am not necessarily talking about a classic form of meditation, such as huatou or sitting in a full lotus posture. Rather, I am talking about a simple ability to attend to a simple action or process (such as the breath) without getting caught by attaching to thoughts and narratives. Sometimes, 'just sitting' is enough, because it breaks the kinetic connection to our thoughts and emotions, and allows them to dissipate on their own. Compared to what I experience when I simply follow the words of a news story and attach to it, meditation allows me not to be attached and to create that crucial buffer between thought and reaction, between reaction and action, emotion and motion.
    By the way...my phone is still cracked (see previous entry!). But the sales clerk at the repair shop was nice enough to appraise my self-inflicted mess and advise me to go back to my phone company and see if I can possibly invest in a new phone.  I will keep my cracks for now, thank you very much; they remind me that I am not all I am cracked up to be, that I am fragile, and breakable. They remind me also that I am fallible, fall-able, droppable and throwable, perhaps even throw-away-able. And knowing this reminds me of my humanity and sometimes my blindness in seeing my very own nose when my mind is preoccupied or rushed.

A Cracked Phone

 Today seemed to be a bad luck day for me, as I had neglected to take my cellphone with me this morning. I went back home to retrieve it (which cost me a bit of time) only to find later that night that it slipped from my hand and cracked on the pavement. I now regret the fact that I went back to retrieve the phone: a phone safe at home is much better than one freshly cracked! Nonetheless, my first impulse upon breaking the phone was to protect the phone by buying a case, which is something I should have thought of before cracking the phone! Now why would I have such a protective impulse, I wonder, after doing such a thing?
   There is indeed something interesting about the desire to nurse something that is broken. Maybe it is a natural kind of instinct, but an alternate explanation is that the cellphone has become an extension of my own body and being. It makes sense that this would be so, because now our phones have become such faithful extensions of ourselves: providing the daily news, the facebook feeds, and the connections with the outside world that we crave. To break a phone is to disrupt something that seems so vital. So there is actually a sense of developing an attachment and treating it as an extension of one's own awareness and well being.
    But once something is broken, one cannot go back to the way it was before. Either it gets repaired somehow or I will suffer a couple of years until it is replaced. But once it has happened, I can only accept its brokenness as symbolic of my own brokenness, and resolve to be more mindful in the future. It would make no sense for me to go back in time to a moment when it wasn't cracked at all, but at the same time, it is important to learn something from it and develop a resolve not to repeat the mistakes that triggered it to happen.For instance, do I really need to pull out my cellphone on a street corner, when it can be accidentally dropped?  These are times when I am tested to see if I can truly be meditative about my actions, and not driven so much by anxiety.

Some Thoughts about the Ten Practices- Giving

  I am in a coffee shop preparing for the Surangama Sutra Study group meeting, when I come across the section on the 10 practices, also known as paramitas. I wanted to give myself a kind of review in how I relate to these terms.
   The first practice is called the "Practice of Happiness" (p.333), but from the commentary by Master Hsuen Hua, this corresponds to the practice of giving (dana). I think this makes sense, in the way that what we always try to give is happiness. When I am in a great mood, I will naturally 'give' that state of mind to those around me; whatever is inside of me flows outward. But more than that, Buddha identifies this as the way Bodhisattvas "respond to the needs of all beings throughout the ten directions." (p.333). In other words, it's not about just giving happiness, but it is also knowing what kinds of happiness people need to have in the moment. For some people, the happiness involves talking with them to know what worries them, whereas for others, it might mean giving them their own space to be with their thoughts and sort things out. To give, one needs to know well the person to whom one gives.
    In the commentary, Master Hsuen Hua notes, "You should enjoy giving. It's not that you decide to give only under duress; it's not that on the on hand you want to give, but on the other hand you don't want to." (p.334).  I think this amounts to saying that giving grudgingly isn't a real form of giving, since it's not coming from the heart or from a whole-minded perspective. When I want to give but am not sure whether I really want to, I create a conflict between one thought and another, and the two thoughts 'fight' for my attention until one finally wins over the two. This kind of giving never feels good because the giver hasn't really surrendered to the present moment, wholeheartedly. The other trap that Master Hsuen Hua warns against is that of giving only in the expectation of an instrumental gain or reward. Unfortunately, this can happen if a person is only focused on the Buddhist notion of merit.
   Giving doesn't necessarily need to be about a tangible item that someone else can use and enjoy. In fact, I believe that every moment is a practice of giving to what needs doing. If there is a homework assignment for me to do, the best way I can face it is to put my whole mind and energy into it, without dividing my attention on past and future events, or vexations. Once I commit to doing something, I let go of thinking about the personal gain I might incur.
     Master Hsuen Hua also notes that there are three kinds of giving, according to the Buddha's teachings: "1) the giving of wealth, 2) the giving of Dharma, and 3) the giving of fearlessness" (p.334-335). This last one interests me especially, because it appears to mean providing others with encouragement to face their own fears. Perhaps being present with others helps in that way the most, rather than seeing giving as an excruciating ordeal. In Western cultures (in particular the church), I have heard the slogan "give until it hurts", to the point where giving that doesn't hurt does not seem to count. Without a stable mind, however, all gifts are given with vexations and a lot of expectation. In this way, the degree to which I suffer from giving might suggest that my mind and heart are not in the moment.


Surangama Sutra: A New Translation (2009). Ukia, CA: Buddhist Text Translation Society

No two moments the same

   In the recent days, many people have felt turmoil in the world, especially with the change in political landscape post- U.S. election. While there are those who might wonder why this is important or relevant to daily life, others hunker down into a heavy despair. I think it's important in these moments to take a somewhat middling path between the despair of thinking it's the end of the world, and the apathy of not caring at all. Can Buddhist teachings help in this way? Yes, I believe that they can be good and useful reminders.
    I have noticed indeed that people often take the approach of either trying to shut out painful situations (such as using the biggest set of headphones) and becoming militantly angry, to the point of rage about a situation. I think what characterizes both these approaches is that they assume that whatever is on their mind has a permanent existence. In fact, nothing is like that. People do and can change over time, even if a person is stuck in one view. The problem is that sometimes people don't stick around long enough to see change happen on its own, and when they do stick around, they may only be seeing the present through the lens of a distant memory. It's a bit like a scientist who has worked on this one theory all her or his life and sees things only as a way of confirming that theory. If I stop thinking that everything by necessity fits that mould or does not, I can start to see things in very different, novel ways as opposed to before.
   There is a certain joy that comes from staying in a relation with someone and observing how we change our reaction to the similar situation over time. Why is that? I think it's because we begin to realize that the mind can see variations if they listen deeply and closely enough. If you take a picture of one tree 100 times, it might look like the same tree at first, but then when your mind is more relaxed and you slow down, you might begin to feel that the tree changes across the images. But if I don't slow down and really look at it, I will conclude that it's all just the same thing. And this leads to the boredom that often incites violence or anger at something. It's as though rather than seeing each instance as separate and distinctly formed from its own unique conditions and circumstances, I lump all the experiences into one in order to make a case 'for' or 'against' its existence. Can we get out of that rut enough to see that they aren't really the same at all? I think this is a challenge that everyone needs to face in the moment.

Our Unshared Memories

During the meditation group sharing, we had this discussion about memory, and I recall reading a book about Iris Murdoch by her husband, John Bayley, Elegy for Iris. In it, John talks about how he could only relate to his Alzheimer's suffering wife through the lens of previous memories he had shared with her. Whenever Iris would break out into a smile as he related a story from back in the days when she was able to speak coherently, John would conclude that Iris surely 'remembered'. But this reflection lead me to wonder, do we not somehow construct very different memories based on our causes and conditions? Is there anyone who has ever really shared their memories with someone else after all?
    I related to the meditation group a cliché example: that of a married couple who have an argument over 'remembering' an important milestone shared by the two of them. While one person might remember something specific about the date and time in which they met, the other might have completely different sorts of impressions on that very same experience. In fact, couples can get into the biggest fights over having very different memories about the same situation. What is the fight really about, though? It's not necessarily about who cares more, but more centered around which memories are most crucial or important to the relationship. It makes no sense to accuse the other of having 'selective' memory, especially when it seems that everyone's memory is selective! But because I remember something so vividly, I take it that this memory must be the bedrock for my shared experiences with the other person. In reality, are any of these memories really shared at all? Or might it be more feasible to suggest that we sometimes share similar values regarding situations, even when our memories about the situations might be different?
   We also had an interesting talk about the role of sharing in the group practice. It seems that whenever I am having what I think is a poor meditation experience, a few encouraging words from other participants has a way of uplifting my experience by reframing it. For instance, if my leg pain is framed as "heroic journey" through an arduous self-discipline, then that might encourage me to keep enduring. On the other hand, if my feeling of pain is taken to mean that I am not 'fit' for meditation, then this would surely turn me off the practice altogether. With these framings or potential reframings of meditative practice, one might then ask--whose story is it anyway? Perhaps it doesn't necessarily belong to anyone in particular, but could rather be a story that touches and is constructed in a community of practitioners.

Enjoy the Surprises

  I was reflecting today on how life needs to make space for the unpredictable. How many times have you seen a picture or a news story and thought that the future is somehow predestined in that picture? I have found that I have a habit of projecting the future onto something that is only in this moment and is bound to change. 
    There is something quite beautiful about the idea of children being surprised by the unexpected. I recall that this happened to me in my 6th birthday, when I was unexpectedly surprised with 'early' birthday presents prior to that date. I couldn't believe at that time that somehow rules could be bent on enjoying birthday celebrations. Quite often, surprises come from very unexpected spaces, but the problem with adult life is that we often don't stick with something long enough to be genuinely surprised by it. Rather than waiting for the beautiful things to come from something, we keep changing the channel to find something that is immediately within our control. So I found that sometimes we have to go back to being someone who waits for surprises, but does so not in an expectant way...maybe is just open to the possibility of surprise.

a fast paced world--on slowing down

When the world is moving at a fast pace, it is often hard to tell when it's time to stop and when it's time to sit down and reflect on what to do next. I believe that this is because there is a fear of missing out on a lot of events. How, then, can a person slow down and try to see what's happening to them? I think I am still trying to work the answer out myself.
   I wonder if perhaps it's when a person fails that they can start to see that there is no need to keep up with others. After all, the reason for the struggle to keep up often relates to a deeper fear of failure which needs to be addressed. When I can loosen up and realize that losing one chance is not the end of all chances, then my mind has permission to slow down. But if the mind is always fixated on success and keeping the success one has, it can be quite hard to know when and how to let go. Does it sometimes take a big change in a person's life to do so? Certainly--many self-help books will tell you so. But I don't think it's as easy as said. A person needs to have something they feel they can fall back on when there is a lot of loss in life, so there needs to be a sense of security there to risk insecurity. This is why even when faced with loss, there is always going to be that tug of self-protection which wants to pull back and retreat a little bit. This seems like a human balance, and I wouldn't feel so bad if I happened to feel that I needed to protect myself from change now and then.

Same Story, Different Views.. New Story

 If you take any particular news story on the internet and compare across the different sources, what you will find is likely surprising and amazing at the same time. Of course there are going to be similarities over facts presented, but with most cases in journalism, there is going to be the taint of bias. Even the emphasis in the story can create a completely different sort of picture if it is represented across different media sources. So, what does one make of this?
   One thing that occurs to me is that when we consider different ways of wording a story, we can tell that there are multiple stakeholders. I imagine that if I were a journalist (and I never could be one, I argue), I would have such a hard time, knowing that what I say can upset some parties in the story while elevating others. It's humbling to know that a story can never truly and fully represent the entire range of possible perceptions and experiences. Yet, at the same time, I suggest that this also hints at potentially freeing possibilities, since we are less drawn into the wording or the invective of one of the particular versions of the story.
   The tricky part is that I don't think anyone can ever really know for certain what actually 'happens' from one moment to the next. There are so many antecedent causes, I argue, that what we see arising is often the result of a complex interplay of forces, many of which aren't fully known to the human eye or mind. Given that actions and events lie within this complex matrix of causes and conditions, all we can really do is approximate a deep understanding of some of these intertwining forces, thus demonstrating their interdependence. With humility (or experience), one can begin to appreciate how one story is just one perspective on the complicated interplay, and it only looks at it from a limited perspective. I can have the creativity to potentially change the narrative a bit and experiment with how a story and people can  be told, without attaching to one of the stories or another.

Meditation and Patience

  The more I practice meditation, the more I appreciate that change doesn't happen just because a person wants it to happen or 'thinks' it into existence. During the group practice today, we were sharing about the analogy in Buddhism about catching a feather with a fan: meditative practice needs to respect the goal but also do so with a relaxed perspective and attitude. In commenting on this analogy in Faith in Mind, Master Sheng Yen remarks:


Practicing with a goal in mind is like trying to catch a feather with a fan. The more you go after it, the more it eludes you. But if you sneak up on it slowly, you can grab it. The aim of practice is to develop patience and forbearance, to train your mind to become calm and stable. (p.19)


I think there are many interesting points to Master Sheng Yen's commentary. One that I find interesting is how setting a goal and working toward it does not necessarily require that the mind and body be tense and 'concentrated' all the time. Rather, it's possible to have a goal and not try to wear oneself out trying to attain it. The second point seems more subtle. Could it be that all goal setting in general is not about attaining something, but might be a kind of mental training?


I might consider a different analogy, namely working life. Many, if not most people, are under the impression that work is designed with the final goal of a profit, or the expansion of a company. While this is true, there is somehow a deeper purpose and meaning to work, which relates to how character develops and unfolds. If I see a challenge, do I really only focus on the final goal? Maybe there is no final goal. Many projects in the workplace fail, in spite of the money and time invested in it. But does this mean that the endeavor was a waste of time? Actually, a lot of money is invested in learning alone. If millions of dollars are invested in a project that ends up failing, we could say that the learning experience itself wasn't lost as a result.


Perhaps a meditative approach to work is about realizing that the whole process is to train the mind to be calm, open and patient in all situations. This in itself is already a good thing even if it doesn't lead to specific results.


Sheng Yen (1987) Faith in Mind. Elmhurst NY: Dharma Drum Publications

Awareness of Choice

   I believe it may have been in reading Krishnamurti that I was introduced to the idea of 'choiceless awareness', which involves being able to look at a situation holistically without trying to separate out anything. But I also begin to appreciate more and more the idea that we can use this same awareness to make choices. The difference is that I am no longer attaching to the outcome or believing that choices are inevitable.
   An example might be what happens at work when one disagrees with the way the work culture is unfolding, or even with the boss. In this instance, I can react negatively to the situation, or can look at the situation with equanimity and reason that this is what they are presented with, take it or leave it. But once I recognize that I cannot resist the reality of that situation, I suddenly have a different set of choices. Whereas the first was about whether to fight, conquer or flee, the second phase after equanimity is to completely accept the situation, but also knowing that there are choices. At each moment, one can choose to engage or not to engage, or even just to engage a little bit. There is no rule that forces a person to either wholeheartedly embrace or reject a proposition. Somewhere in between, one can actually experiment. And when a person realizes the many choices they have in handling a situation (many of which haven't even materialized or been imagined yet), there is an enormous space that opens up, almost a kind of relief from the pressure of assuming that one has no choice but to handle the situation either one way or the opposite.

On Being Behind

  There were a few volunteer related things I had to do today which were on the backburner for some time. They ended up taking much longer than I had anticipated. I always feel anxious whenever there is something that I feel I did not do on time. It almost gives me that feeling of when I was in school and had to stay behind if certain assignments were not done. While this might have seemed punishing, however, I also get a sense that the anxiety of being 'pulled back' has a more significant meaning to me which I have yet to unpack. Part of the anxiety actually relates to a visceral sense I have of the body being immobilized or restrained, in spite of my most strident efforts to keep up with a given pace of life.
   I think that in these kinds of situations, two things are quite helpful. The first is to simply lose the sense of time altogether. If linear time feels like the Sisyphian rock, would it be more ideal to simply not indulge that sense whatsoever?  I find that the only way to move forward would be to stop thinking in terms of the future, and only do what can presently be handled.
    Another point is to recognize that things often have their own way of unfolding which can't really be helped. It's just something that needs to be anticipated. In fact, often the reason I procrastinate on things is that I know that something is going to take longer than I wish it to take, and I secretly don't want the task to take up so much time. If I loosen my grip on time and see the task for what it is, I can weather its storms really well, in fact.

Passivity

 I have often heard the misconception Buddhist teachings are "passive"---meaning that they are too heavily based on the notion of accepting things as they are, that they may fail to inspire people to change things for better. Aside from the problematic notion that acceptance always entails lack of action, I begin to wonder why there is a stigma in North American culture about 'letting things slide', and is it always irresponsible to do so? Just the other day, I made a similar error. When I was tutoring a student about an article on personality traits, I suggested that 'passivity' was a more negative trait than a similar introverted quality such as 'reflective' or 'introspective.' But what makes passivity 'negative', and who assigns positive or negative connotations to such qualities?
    In my own mental map, I would have to say that I gave much higher grades to 'passivity' when I was a teenager than I do now. I think it's because at that time, I was more aware than ever of the dangers of hasty action, and I likely didn't have that many social responsibilities. I associated passivity with a kind of austere, contemplative reserve which philosophers and a few scientists had. Could I say that passivity seemed more 'romantic' to me than it does now? In any case: over time, I started to notice how I could no longer afford to be passive about certain things (such as looking for a job!) and my purely observational stance started to fade more into the background.
   I think there are times when a person should have permission to be more passive about things and not necessarily do anything even when there is an expectation to respond all the time. At some point, for example, I might begin to value rest than activity, especially after having a heavy schedule. But rather than seeing this as a permission to let everything slide, I think there can be passivity in small doses: the occasional pause between breaths or the lull between crescendos in music. In fact, these doses of passivity are probably very essential to good health, and they allow a person not only to catch the breath but also stop seeing themselves in the hustle and bustle around them.

Sharing Practice in Virtual Communities

I am currently reading a book called Buddhism, the Internet, and Digital Media: The Pixel in the Lotus edited by Gregory Price Grieve and Daniel Veidlinger. This book talks about the kinds of Internet activity that is going on in regards to Buddhist practice. One of the points which struck me comes from research by Allison Ostrowski, which suggests that American Buddhists tend to access Buddhist-related sights more for "information" than to connect with fellow believers and practitioners (p.201-202). I wondered why this is so, but I have a few hypotheses. The first is that Buddhism in America (North America in general) tends to be relatively new, and it may be that practitioners are still in the process of consolidating their knowledge. A second possibility is that "new" Buddhists are afraid to approach anyone for fear that they may be misguided away from the tradition that they have chosen to practice in Buddhism. There is sometimes a fear that too many 'voices' in discussion might start to dilute the practice in some way, and people on the Internet might be looking for the most 'clear cut' information they can find.
    I sometimes wonder, at what point does the process of building a practice later lead to the desire to reach out to others to share it? Is there a certain point in the person's evolution within a practice where this becomes more compelling? Having learned Buddhist practice from a center and not initially online, I had some benefit of always having others with whom I could discuss or at least overhear what was happening in their practice. But with online connections, one can't always tell who they are talking to. Another point is that many Buddhists emphasize staying with one lineage or tradition, rather than trying to draw from a mixture of different practices.
     Certainly, I can say that confidence in one's practice is one factor in whether one decides to 'share' one's spiritual tradition with others, or try to seek out others. If I am not so confident in my affiliation with Buddhism, I may be less inclined to actively seek out those who are, or at least proclaim to be, because there may not be such a strong sense of affinity or affiliation to one teaching. Another possibility, however, might be to see that opposite: that all teachings have some grain of truth in them, and one is allowed to be curious to listen to all the truths in everyone without feeling that their faith is undermined by the multiple voices around them. This is an exciting idea, but it also makes me wonder whether people can find the time to invest in all that the Internet has to offer.


Buddhism, the Internet, and Digital Media: The Pixel in the Lotus edited by Gregory Price Grieve and Daniel Veidlinger. New York: Routledge.














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Media, Technology and Buddhism (Some Thoughts)

   There are a whole number of blogs and websites out there which are exploring Buddhist topics and organizations. I have been thinking recently, what kinds of niches do these blogs fulfill? One of my theories is that Buddhist-themed blogs can allow practitioners to sound out what they believe is a part of the Buddhist faith, while also incorporating other parts of their identity which may not be discussed in their communities. For instance, I might be Buddhist and also Christian at the same time (yes, possible), or I might also be a Buddhist with a particular passion for gardening. Blogging seems to offer an opportunity for people to explore hybrid identities, which often consist of unique combinations of interests. Since Buddhism is flexible to embrace these hybrid sorts of identities as expressions of wisdom and compassion, there is an endless combination of these hybrids.
   Can expressions such as "mindfulness" sometimes be used in an overextended way to include anything? I believe it's possible that the term can be extended to endless, and sometimes absurd permutations (see Wilson, 2014). Can, in a similar way, Buddhism be sometimes indiscriminately applied to just about any field, thus muddying waters over what is a correct application of it? Yes, it is possible. But on the other hand, blogging can give people the opportunity to try to work out what Buddhist philosophy means to them in the particular contexts in which they live. For example, the life of a Buddhist cello player might be quite different from that of a Buddhist businessperson, not only in terms of what they might emphasize in terms of the Buddhist teachings, but also in how they express it. I don't think that this necessarily dilutes the teachings, but in a sense it can allow for a more nuanced presentation of how Buddhist ideas can really infiltrate the daily lives of people. I even suspect that it would be vital to the spread of Buddhism in North America to show the diverse ways in which it can be expressed. If anything, multicultural diversity may be the most interesting idea of the 21st century, and what Buddhist teachings can bring to bear on this topic might be extremely interesting.
  That being said, I have to wonder whether too much of an online community loses the sense of face to face community that characterizes most Buddhist sanghas. I can't imagine, for instance, ever having engaged Dharma Drum Mountain as much as I have were it not for the fact that I met very kind and compassionate volunteers in the organization, who in turn inspired me to want to meditate. Can such kindness be captured through chat rooms and emoticons? So far, at this phase in the game, I am not so sure, and I remain a bit 'openly' skeptical about it. While online resources can provide some intellectual inspiration, I have yet to be fully convinced that there is a full emotional resonance in what I see online, compared with what happens in person. I wonder if perhaps one vital role of blogging is not simply to create its own virtual religious community (or "Vurch"-- a virtual church), but to chronicle those communities in which people are interacting 'in person' in a shared space.






Wilson, Jeff (2015). Mindful America: the Mutual Transformation of Meditation and American Culture. New York: Oxford University Press.

Whose Beliefs are Best?

  I am more and more reflecting on how all spiritual traditions have a reason to exist, and they have something to say to humans. It would be a pity if the highest Utopia were one in which there is only one belief system. Consider Master Sheng Yen's remarks in his small book Establishing Global Ethics:


When people maintain what they believe in is the best religion in the world, they should not forget that others also have the right to say that their faith is the best. When people strive to survive and develop, they should not forget that others also have the right to survive and develop. (p.7-8)


I'd like to add further 'complicating' questions. I wonder, is there ever an ultimate 'end' to spiritual practice, where a person has said that they did it and realized what is Truth? I think this maybe depends on the religious perspective. For instance, some religions envision that human life converges on a final moment, such as a judgment day, when they will be either saved or condemned. According to this view, all human activities converge on a single point which forms the culmination of all their previous actions and views. From my readings of Buddhism, I don't think Buddhist philosophy necessarily considers there to be an end to time or a final state. As long as I am existing in time, there is going to be a past and future state as well. It's only when I see time as constructed by mind that I can see beyond time. But that would not necessarily be some final goal.
    But I think there is another aspect to Master Sheng Yen's quote that might be worth exploring. The previous sentence to the above paragraph relates "there still exists the fact that different religions clash or even provoke wars against each other." (ibid) What is alluded to here is how excessive attachment to one's views can lead to all sorts of conflicts. If I were on a desert island, or surrounded only by those who share the same religious beliefs as myself, would conflict be eliminated altogether? Not really, in my opinion: as long as I am attached to some view and hold it up as the only truth worth preserving, I am inclined to feel some kind of suffering. Soon, I will be conflicting with my fellow 'believers' because I might feel that I am more faithful to the truth than they are! In a sense, all spiritual practices are bound to meet with conflicts and doubts. But the attachment to belief is often a cover-up for the fact that everyone has doubts, even about what they cherish as truth. When I don't want to face my own doubts or misgivings, I end up becoming agitated with others, either for harboring the same doubts or having a different level of confidence in what they believe.
   Another way of looking at this is: for everything one holds as true, there is bound to be a flipside, or a sense of falsity. As long as I believe that one view is true and the other false, I create a mental pressure to stay on the 'true side' and discard the false, and this creates a lot of turmoil. So religious strife doesn't just happen 'out there' between people, but it can also be an inner struggle between faith and doubt. But if I am not trying to attach to 'my' view, and keep a more open channel to how different kinds of truth can arise in different ways, then I am suffering much less. I am not trying to fix myself to only one set of conditions and then trying to reject all the others in pursuit of one final 'moment' of truth.


Shengyen (2008), Establishing Global Ethics. Taiwan: Dharma Drum Publications
  

Being Grateful to Communities

  I decided to take a walk to the English study group tonight, which is based on Master Sheng Yen's book Chan and Enlightenment. During these walks, I will typically orient myself on some reflection related to Master Sheng Yen, or perhaps to a Chan Buddhist concept that helps me. Actually, I really don't have a method at all! I just allow the thoughts to come to me, but I try to have this sincere intention, as though I am asking the deepest wisdom buried within me to summarize an experience of life. And because it's a Friday and I am somewhat more relaxed and less pressed for time, a relaxed thought came to me. That thought is: even though I often feel busy or pressed for time, I have much for which to feel grateful. It's not that I am a being who is endlessly 'giving' but there is a kind of symbiotic relationship between things, where energy transfers across different things without being lost. In fact, I should never have to feel that I am giving up anything, or am some isolated giver. Rather, there is always a symbiosis involved in my exchanges with others, where we share something together.
   The other thought that came to mind: I have often tended to think of community as an instrument of the self. It's not hard to see why. When I stop to think about all the ways I am served (in restaurants, government offices, banks, etc.) it's no wonder that sometimes one is mistaken to think they are being served by the community. The converse of this is to think of community as something one serves, until one retires or passes into the next life. In both cases, community is always conceived as something separate from the self. Sometimes, I have even caught myself believing that the society is only the means to some destiny that only the soul knows about. The problematic part of this view is that it approaches the self as though it were monolithic and unchanging. If I look at a tree, I can respect the fact that it has things that are unique to its design and birth as an acorn..but then I can also see that no two trees are alike in shape and form. They are subject to all manner of changes and influences, based on their position, soil, sunlight, nutrition, and so on. One can only imagine how much more complicated this picture becomes when we start to look at people and their lives.
    An alternate view of community is that the self arises co-dependently with it. This is close to the Buddhist concept of dependent co-arising or pattica samutpada. According to this view, I can't imagine myself as ever separate from my education, or the fellowship of others. If I am not able to fully separate from the influence of others, then it makes less and less sense to try to portion off the self as a separate 'giver' or 'receiver'. To do so is to overlook the inevitable interplay of giving and receiving that happens every moment in life. But when I see myself as either 'giver' or 'receiver', I inevitably distort my relationships with others in some way. A teenager who is always told that he or she is a 'parasite' who doesn't benefit others in any way will be conditioned to believe that she or he is inherently bad, or is unable to give at all. This leads to a lot of needless suffering and even alienation. On the other hand, someone who is always fashioning her or himself to be a 'martyr' or an endless giver, is often plagued with an inability to let others be givers in a relationship. In addition, the martyr believe prevents this person from letting go of their fixed role, and might even lead to resentment and comparison with others who may seem to give less of their time and energy to things.
    Both views are somewhat distorted, because they overlook the contributions that are often made just by non-doing or non-engagement. Sometimes, in not doing so many things or taking on so many roles, I am giving others the opportunity to also breathe a bit easier and feel less pressured to give back in return, or even contribute more. I believe that it's often in non-deliberate, open 'being with' others that one can most be in an engaged relationship, because there isn't the idea that each person in the relationship is a role.

What is this Pure Land on Earth?

  Master Sheng Yen remarks, in Chan and Enlightenment, "The environment in which we live is actually a reflection of our mental state. Different individuals with divergent states of mind will experience the world differently." (p.115). Interestingly, he prefaces this remark by stating, "At the present time, our world cannot yet be called a pure land on earth." (ibid). Reading this, I begin to wonder, is this pure land school really about making the world itself a heavenly, Utopian world? Is Master Sheng Yen hinting at some future time period when everyone will live in peace and see things in much the same way?
   I most resonate with the following: "When we feel happy we perceive the world as a happier place. If we are psychologically unhappy, afflicted, or depressed, the world we perceive, as well as our immediate environment, will also fall short of our expectations." (ibid) Is the goal of all of this contemplation to make a 'happier' world, though? Or is the actual realization that of not being moved by either happiness or sadness?
   From what I gather in these passages, the Pure Land on earth isn't necessarily a feeling so much as it is the ability that is already inherent in awareness. When things are being reflected in a mirror, the mirror does not need to extend itself to reflect the things. In fact, both mirror and reflection are unified in that moment. As soon as there is a concept of a mirror 'reflecting' an object, the reflection metaphor starts to get lost again. In much the same way, things are already pure as they are, but the problem is that one approaches things in a certain way. It's the situation where a sad person goes to a happy party, and a happy person goes to a sad one. Even though my mood and emotion is not dependent on the environment, there is always a lack of resonance. I am 'over here' and the 'rest of the world' is 'over there'. But when there is no more experienced division or duality, there is neither a world nor a separate self inhabiting it.
   I can learn many skilful means to be happy in any environment, such as through visualization or loving kindness practice. But this is only one way. Even then, there is an even 'more pure' way and that has to do with seeing without the bias of 'happy' or 'sad'. It is just 'seeing' itself. And the interesting thing is that this 'just seeing' is the precondition for seeing and being right now, not some special state I need to attain. If it were not for the mind's ability to see, I could not even type these words. The function of pure seeing is already present. It's not about trying to reach anything , but it is more about simply being in a state of receiving and recognizing the mind that already is.


Sheng Yen (2014) Chan and Enlightenment. Taipei: Dharma Drum Publication
  

The Movies of the Mind

 During the group meditation practice tonight, I felt the distinct sense of being like a radio with a lot of stations going on in mind--and a lot of static. Every now and then, I wondered who is listening to all those stations? In fact, when I am not attaching to the flow of the information coming in through these different channels, there doesn't appear to be a strong sense of me at all. Over time, the thoughts started to seem even a bit absurd, and I was becoming less and less involved in them. It's perhaps like the difference between getting really involved in the events of a movie and merely passing by the theatre to peer into the images. It also makes me wonder how much collectively is involved in getting me into the movie of my mind in the first place.
    Of course, if you think about the movie analogy, movie-makers have to make a lot of logistic decisions to draw their audience into buying the ticket for their movie. They need to consider: what makes 'this' particular movie unique, or exciting, or a 'one of a kind' show? They also need to consider what protagonist they want to create, and how to get the audience to potentially identify with the protagonist and invest in her or his fate. If a movie only consists in unbelievable or simply robotic characters, very few people will pay the ticket to see the movie. In order for thoughts and images to have power in the mind, they would also need to have a similar function.
    The problem is that a lot of time, movies of the mind just keep playing and replaying. For instance, if I am in a disagreement with a colleague, I may end up playing the movie repeatedly to the point where I assume that it's my reality and there is nothing more to it. I am not realizing how I am using the mind actively to believe that the images are truly who I am. In that moment, I am choosing some images to be my reality while rejecting others or ignoring others altogether. I forget that the movie is designed precisely in such a way that it hooks you, and you keep spinning new thoughts and new scenarios only to find yourself getting more and more drawn into the drama.
     Meditation is opposite to this process, because it uses a process of non-attached seeing to take in what is occurring. The movies (and radio stations) are still there but they don't have such a powerful grip on the person.

Believing the Advantages

   I am not too sure if Buddhism really has a narrative related to seeing the hidden advantages in all situations. I have certainly read the notion that one constructs one's experiences and can have any number of thoughts about them, but I don't think I have heard too much about 'seeing advantages' in situations. What I am referring to is more like an idea that one always has the choice to view some situation as potentially favorable, either to themselves or to others. In fact, it makes pragmatic sense to do so, because seeing advantages can help the person to act with a good or productive outcome in mind.
  I am afraid that I have to reference William James again, because his essay on "Will to Believe" is really tapping into this notion. He uses the example that if a person truly believes that their loved one does not love them in return, that person might give up making efforts to do things to advance their connection with the person. It's as though the pessimism that a person has will choke them in some way, or prevent them from making the first step in allowing the relationship to happen. What James perhaps doesn't quite answer is the question of how a person cultivates the will to believe. Is it simply a choice to do so, or do people build their convictions based on experience and testimony? Even in the case I just cited, there still needs to be a reason that will compel a person to believe, and James has to supply that reason. Can I choose my beliefs? Yes and no. Yes, in the sense that I can influence my beliefs by adopting open attitudes toward what I am learning or doing. No, in the sense that I am not likely to choose to believe things that are not worth believing in the long run. For instance, I can believe to my heart's content that I will be the next Prime Minister, but believing so is only going to burn out the energy that I could just as well put into more beneficial and realistic goals that I could set for myself. While one could muster a lot of will power to believe in something far out of one's experiences, they would still need to sustain the energy and time to proximate the goal in some way.
     Perhaps one way to see all this is that a belief is a seed, but it is one of many seeds. Like any thought I have, it vies with other thoughts for attention. If I don't do anything to either try to confirm the belief or test it through action, it's possible that the belief will simply vanish on its own, since otherwise, the belief has nothing upon which it can base its continuation. The more I can sustain an energy and behavior toward that belief to the point of investing myself in it, the more likely it will live on in the mind. The belief becomes true not because of one single fact pointing it , but because of the multitude of facets which tend to support its existence.

Respect for Life

     "Respect for life" is a concept that Albert Schweitzer coined to refer to a compassionate embrace of life as embodied in the life of Christ (see Brown, 1968, p.157). While the concept seems really broad-based, I am thinking about the principles that make it really effective in a classroom setting. And I am also thinking about how this concept works in Buddhist teachings as well.
   One of the key aspects about respect for life is that it involves seeing all life as somehow equal. What does this mean, though? Part of it is to understand that what a person witnesses is really a reflection of the deepest part of their mind and heart, which is not in any way different or less than the sacred itself. To use an example: if I see a snake on the road, I can make a choice, either to view it with neutrality, with disgust, or with a loving, accepting gaze. If I see the snake as abhorrent, I am often using the mind of reactivity to look at the snake, rather than seeing its true beauty or aliveness. My disgust and abhorrence renders the snake little more than a 'thing' which causes me to react in some way. We see this kind of reaction in the language we use to describe what we dislike or want to avoid: "Get that thing out of here!" "This stupid thing is annoying!" By rendering something as a 'thing', a person can avoid confronting its reality in itself or its right to exist on its own terms. We also negate the existence of the snake by refusing to give it a name and, thus, a concrete identity.
    I have heard lectures in Buddhism which describe the notion of tathagathagarbha, the inherent Buddha nature in all beings. How does this notion negate or change the way people feel about situations around them? Seeing things as having Buddha nature can remind people that what they see isn't separate from mind itself. Think about it for a moment: think about the complexity and the aliveness of mind, its 'thereness', or its suchness. And then realize: whatever one is interacting with has this same quality of thereness, thusness, aliveness. It's all part of how the mind is. But if I discriminate the mind from the phenomena, I make the mistake of thinking they are two separate things and don't mix together. I forget that the snake is endowed with the same mind. The appearance of the snake is just a wave in the ocean, and the ocean is the same for both the person and the snake.
  In a classroom, one might start to adopt this principle by seeing all the class members as equals in a shared struggle and shared learning experience. While each participant may seem to be completely separate, in that moment, they are waves in the same ocean. Is it possible to compete with another if they are seen as a left and right hand? In fact, it no longer makes sense to treat others in this way. This kind of respect for life is taking a moment to acknowledge how sacred and how awesome it is to behold the mind through the phenomena. What is 'sacred' here is the sense of there-ness: snake and human share the same momentary presence in connection to each other.
   In such a classroom setting, one person is not privileged for her ideas. Rather, ideas themselves are seen as tools for the shared interaction and dialogue to take shape in a learning environment. If I isolate an idea and attach to the individual who seemed to have originated it, I am overlooking many aspects about that idea. The first is that ideas never originate in one individual: rather, they come from a series of causes and conditions which contribute to the creation of the moment. The second is that ideas don't act in interaction; rather, they are shared among many people who evolve those ideas. To see things in this way, one can start to realize that their small 'self' which wants to control the whole operations is never really 'in charge' at all. This self is bound by a series of conditions, and it doesn't exist as a self-sustaining entity.
   

Narrative Purposes

  Writing narrative can have different purposes. There is 'revealing' what is true and harmonizing with it, and then there is using writing to coerce or to persuade. This is a little bit like the difference between trying to use tools to work with nature and trying to use tools to go against nature. The former example might be using a fallen tree as a way to get across a stream of running water, while the latter might be using explosives to cut through a rock and replace it with a road.
   I wonder, how does a person write themselves into existence? What is the difference between writing to harmonize with the circumstances and reveal what they are, and using writing to create a face or an identity that may or may not be authentic? I think the difference probably has to do with the attitude a person takes when writing. Sometimes the attitude is oppositional: I might not like what the world presents to me, so I try to oppose it in some way by creating an identity that is isolated from the world. On the other hand, I might use the elements around me to create a different attitude toward them.
   An example might be: this morning, there was an extremely cold temperature, and I had many errands to do, including getting books for an upcoming course. I could take that moment in two different ways. One is to fantasize about having a hovercraft that safely gets me from A to B without any hassles or pains. Another way is just to behold the moment for what it is: cold. Windy. Erratic temperatures. Discomfort. And I can start to explore the wonders of that experience. For instance, there is the wonderful sense that transit still operates in this cold weather, I can get to my destinations on time, and walking against the wind gives me an opportunity to exercise my muscles. I can also consider the ways I can better prepare myself to accept the weather and even marvel at the natural forces that go into its operations. Rather than trying to resist it, I can go with it and accept its quiet wonder, as though I were staring into a divine creation, or a sublime mountain. What is the use in trying to change a mountain into something else, or something 'controllable'? If everything could be subdued or even avoided, wouldn't it take the beautiful edges off of life? Why do things have to be smooth and predictable? I think being with the present, incomplete discomfort is a way of lessening trying to perfect the moment through comfort or convenience.
   During the Dharma talk this weekend, Fashi mentioned the idea of karma and how we can best utilize the idea. The common view of karma is that it is about reaping what one sows. For instance, one could interpret the stormy weather as a sign that someone has done something wrong and it is now a punishment for their past behavior! This perspective can make the situation more difficult to manage. The other extreme is to conclude that there is simply no connection between the situation and the previous one. This is like the nihilism of 'stuff happens', which can also lead to a quiet despair. A third option, which I believe Fashi described, is to fully accept that whatever happened has already come to fruition. If I see it as a punishment, I am only adding another thought to the already existing moment, and that can distort the situation itself. If I am reconciled to the fact that things are as they are now and the past is irreversible, I can then have the strength to see it in new ways that don't inhibit me or vex me in some way. I can also see that even 'accidents' are really opportunities in disguise. This may be a new way to narrate what happens to a person: not seeing things as punishment, or as revenge, or as 'this is the way it is', but seeing the silent promise of the everyday, and what it could become through time and patience.

A Never Ending Journey

In her book This Worldly Nibbana, Hsiao-Lin Hu remarks, "in the interconnected web, there is no center to be found, nor is there any clearly defined path that can guarantee one's rightness/or righteousness." More so, she maintains that "the right and the wrong of an action are determined only when all dimensions of an action are put into consideration, including one's mentality at the time of taking the action, the concrete results produced by the action, and the impacts on the well-being of both self and others." (p.145) This seems to be a very daunting task, and I wonder, are Buddhists in particular ever nostalgic for some day when good and bad were clearly defined?
   The loss of clear-cut notions of good and bad can seem scary, because the result is to place total responsibility on one's own thoughts, reflections and behaviors in guiding them to make wholesome actions that are not attached to preconceived ideas. I am reminded, somehow, of the term 'moral holiday', which was coined by William James to describe how the belief in a divine power can sometimes give people a much-needed rest from having to make complex decisions from moment to moment. Hu's remarks should in a sense be qualified: although Buddhist practitioners carry the responsibility of their own karma, they wouldn't necessarily need to treat this a burden. First of all, it's simply not possible for people to take care of every single factor in their environment or life that leads to suffering or vexation. I have heard that it can be good enough to acknowledge that the present moment is the result of previous conditions. When I fully accept the present as the result of previous actions (wholesome or not), I can truly rest and not struggle with necessarily trying to make it different or looking for some reason 'why' it happened.
    During the talk I had attended today, Venerable ChangXing had mentioned four specific ways of responding to situations from a Chan perspective. They are :


        a) Acceptance of retribution/enmity: that is, realizing that what you encountered is the result of previous karma, and there is no use complaining about it or somehow forcing it to be different
       b) Acting in accord with conditions: knowing that there is no stable self to speak of, one resolves to be fully with the situation and flow with circumstances without clinging to a fixed notion of the self and its place
      c) "Seek nothing". This refers to renunciation, the ability to let go of the three poisons of greed, hatred and ignorance and cultivating an attitude of letting go of attachment
     d) Acting in accordance with Dharma (including cultivating right views).


These are very well known in Buddhism, but I found them to be elegant and very clear principles which can help a person to navigate a world where there are no binary opposites of good/bad. Rather than trying to assign blame for present situations by referring to fixed rules, these principles point to a more accepting philosophy which sees the present as the result of intertwining causes and conditions.    
      But I would argue that these principles also challenge the notion that Buddhists have to arrive at any fixed conclusions of right and wrong, based on a complete assessment of the situation. First of all, as Hu mentions in her book, it's pretty much impossible to assess all the causes that go into a situation. Even if this could be done, it doesn't mean that new causes could not arise to affect the present situation or even change its meaning over time. How often have you heard the idea that an illness can change a person's life in ways that they could never have imagined just by diagnosing the illness itself?  I think this experience of 'reappraisal' suggests that even the way we look at causality itself is influenced by the narrative framework we choose to place on something. Sometimes, looking for the reasons for something also blinds or masks the fact that the situation contains hidden potentials and opportunities. Rather than looking to the past, the situation might hint at beneficial things arising in the future.


Hu, Hsiao-Lan (2011). This-Worldly Nibbana: A Buddhist-Feminist Social Ethic for Peacemaking in the Global Community. Albany NY: SUNY

If You Think So..

 I have a real feeling that prayer and mantra work only if you believe that they do. But what makes a person 'believe' in the power of prayer and mantra? Is it the 'will' to believe, or is there something more subtle going on in a person's ability to believe? These are interesting questions that are worth investigating and researching. But I have a sense that surrender, confidence, and curiosity play key roles in the power of prayer and mantra.
   Surrender is one quality which I quite admire in people who are devoted to prayer and chanting rituals. I found that many people who chant in the group practices in the Buddhist centre I attend tend to have such a deep emotional connection, which arises from the profound compassion that one has toward sentient beings. Although I tend to have a more 'dry' disposition when it comes to these things, I think that the key part is to yield to the prayer or mantra as though it were the only thing available in one's life. It's in the sense of surrender and relaxing in the moment that the simple word can have a great amount of power. There is a trust there, but it often comes from not having too much expectation or hope in anything else. In the classic book Varieties of Religious Experience, William James has chronicled many examples of people who come to a religious devotion not from striving to do so, but more from a sense of 'giving in' to something that is higher than the self. The paradox of surrender is that it brings a person closer to a state of sincere devotion than someone who is only striving to attain a sense of self as a 'spiritual being'.
   Confidence seems to naturally arise after one has surrendered fully to prayer or mantra. I think this confidence is more like a raft than an edifice. It is about not about holding onto something but feeling safe and grounded in what's sustaining your momentary awareness. If a person believes that who they are praying to is millions of light years away, how are they going to feel when praying? Most likely, they will feel disconnected and lack confidence. For this reason, it seems best to trust that the prayer is being directed at one's own heart, and the compassion that naturally resides there.
     Curiosity is needed to weather the storms between connection and disconnection. Curiosity is similar to the presentation of love that is found in Plato's Symposium (particularly in the section on Diotima), because it mediates between oneself and a loved or admired object. Through curiosity, I am attracted to a process of moving toward something, but also in all my relationships (close or distant) to some loved being. Without curiosity, there is no way to really find meaningful ways to connect when it is hard to connect or when there is a dryness in spiritual practice.
    I don't expect people to always feel connected to their spiritual lives. Doubt can play a key part in the tides of a spiritual practice, and having doubt can actually become a way of strengthening one's faith in the end. It's important to even embrace disconnection as a vital process which often brings a person into a more genuine connection with their spiritual practice and personal life. If one doesn't embrace periods of doubt and despair, they miss a golden opportunity to deepen their reasons to have a spiritual practice in the first place.

The Line Between "It's Better To" and "Must"

  I have been reading a lot of Albert Ellis's writings on REBT therapy principles, and I find that a lot of is somehow similar to the Buddhist teachings on non-attachment. Ellis offers a reasoned way of helping his clients (and readers) understand how to maximize their efforts without getting into what he calls "masturbation"--that tendency to think that things have to be done just because it is most beneficial that they are done. I think this is similar to the tendency to link a series of impressions into a subject and object. For instance, I see something I like, and then soon I start to sense an "I" that is deficient unless I absolutely have to own that thing. I suspect that Buddhist phenomenology has a more detailed and nuanced way of articulating Ellis's principles, but Ellis tends to be more direct and logical, rather than anatomizing the process of coming to form a self and other. Nonetheless, there are perhaps a few parallels in the two ways of thinking.
    The struggle I have with Ellis is that he poses two (in my opinion) very different and sometimes potentially conflicting discourses, and then somehow tries to put them together. I am not sure if the result is successful or whether it's up to the client to navigate the two different discourses and bring them together.
       One of these discourses is that of "unconditional self/other acceptance." This refers to the ability for the mind to pretty much accept everything, provided that one is not insisting that reality go according to their likes, preferences and plans. In other words, Ellis suggests that everything is bearable if we stop feeling that we have to have things a certain way that feels 'right' for us. Similarly, loving others comes from the attitude of complete, unconditional acceptance. Ellis argues that there  is no limit to this acceptance.  Even when a person feels the sadness of losing a loved one or being unemployed, for instance, the mind is able to accept the condition of sadness itself as natural and inevitable, rather than railing against the circumstances or trying to make them different. So far, this aspect is reminiscent of the Buddhist concepts of renunciation (nekhamma) and even the 'suchness' of tathagathagarbha. In these latter concepts, there is a complete acceptance which is not tainted with attachment to certain feelings, thoughts or ideal states of being. As a result, there is no self-attachment when things are not going as planned.
     The second discourse that predominate in Ellis's writing is the attitude which he refers to as "PYA" or "Push your ass". Ellis is referring to the fact that because most desirable things in life are hard-won and require great amounts of personal effort, one had better learn to tolerate a certain amount of natural and inevitable hardship and frustration to achieve one's desired goals. Already, I begin to sense that this discourse somewhat contradicts the notion of unconditional acceptance. For example, if I unconditionally accept things as they are now, why would I need to have goals or work hard to achieve anything? Of course, I am stating this crudely, but I am suggesting that these two ideas may sit uneasily in the mind. I have often heard group meditation practitioners ask this same question: does the non-attachment found in meditation contradict the process of goal setting that students undergo? Of course, the answer to this question from a Buddhist perspective is that we still set goals, but the goals are more often related to achieving wholesome states of mind as well as providing benefits to others. These are not considered forms of tanha or egoistic cravings that the Buddha describes as the second Noble Truth, or source of suffering. From Ellis' perspective, however, it's not so clear. I wonder if Ellis is suggesting that even though we may not be attached to preferences, we still have preferences, and an optimal life consists in pursuing preferred states of being without insisting that they happen. In other words: set goals, but do not turn goals into shoulds or musts.
     So far, so good, but I think that the conflict for me reaches its peak when I consider how we orient ourselves to anxiety at work. If I take the first discourse, I may become too lackadaisical, and become resigned to the idea that I accept myself as I am rather than exerting effort to improve a process or situation. Now, this is still attachment, and Ellis would argue that it's more akin to insisting that one be 'the same' as one was a minute ago, which is certainly a dogmatic kind of view rather than a true acceptance. True acceptance is by necessity fluid in the sense that it spontaneously adopts to a variety of novel and existing situations. My 'resigning' myself to one view of who I am is already a form of attachment, and both the Buddha and Ellis would argue that it creates suffering because it only solidifies the false notion of who one is.
    I have a sense that the second discourse (Push your ass) can only be sustainable once a person has fully and thoroughly mastered the first concept. The reason for this is that hard work only becomes another form of torturous suffering when one has invested their sense of identity, value and worth into it. Ellis wants us to disabuse ourselves of these investments, precisely so that we can smoothly move into the second discourse. While the first discourse might be compared to 'stilling' the mind by lessening attachment, the second discourse might be more akin to a selfless investigation of things as they are. Once I have accepted myself and situation without attaching to my work as 'my value', I then paradoxically have a lot of mental space to take on more projects and do so without anxiously measuring my value by what I complete or perform 'well'.
    Whenever a person feels flustered, it's best that they shift away from a pull your ass mentality and toward a sense of unconditional worth and love. The alternating discourses of pull your ass and unconditional acceptance are actually two dialectic poles, and need to be equally validated and introduced. However, I suspect that Ellis is right in placing somewhat more stress on unconditional self acceptance. Without it, 'pushing one's ass' becomes another form of anxious suffering rooted in attachments.

Joys of Disagreement

 When people work together in a group or a team,  is it always considered healthy if they never disagree with one another? Of course, the common wisdom in self-help books is, 'agree to disagree'. I suppose this is a safe way to express disagreement, at least in a way that is respectful of others. But I wonder, is there an expectation that people should always resolve their differences? Or can disagreement open the possibility that people can never fully resolve difference?
   I sometimes feel that excessive disagreement can lead to love. Why? It's because disagreement is the most intimate thing, at times. The fact that people can disagree so vehemently about topics or ideologies, for instance, is possibly a sign of deep shared experiences. I even imagine that it took many lifetimes for the disagreement to swell to such a proportion as one sees it now. Does that mean that one should just keep fighting and arguing? I don't think I am arguing for a glorification of disagreement so much as a realization that disagreement can be a sign of a deeply shared connection with someone. When a person focuses on that aspect, the disagreement may start to lose a bit of its edge, and it can yield to harmony. I am talking here about an experience of gratitude: one feels simply grateful to have the opportunity to learn so much about themselves, by virtue of how deeply they react to someone else. Is this kind of disagreement not a rich opportunity to discover one's own tendencies, while practicing a spiritual path?
    Perhaps there is a certain joy in knowing that there are people to whom we might be meant to disagree, but that this disagreement can be an opportunity for learning and growth.

The Joys and Pains of Showing Up

  I am thinking lately about the concept of liminal space, and how it affects the way I think about social life.  "Liminal space" is often heard in holistic education circles, to refer to either a rite of passage which leads to maturity, or a kind of 'in between' space where there is not too much certainty in things. One of the most anxiety-provoking liminal spaces one can experience is that of transitioning to new social situations or new groups, or perhaps even re-entering a group for a second time. The anxiety of the liminal space is that of not being too sure whether one can really be accepted within the group or feel secure in it. It's also an anxiety which relates to identity: not quite knowing who one is or how a person functions in a community. I have sometimes heard of the term 'anomie' which is related to the sense of not knowing how to perform in a community where values have been subverted or turned into question. Like "liminal space", anomie can sometimes refer to a dreadful sense of despair, of not quite knowing what to do to achieve the things one truly needs to survive.
   Liminal space can perhaps best be described as the situation of "Just showing up": one commits one's presence to a situation without even knowing how one's body and habits 'fit' into the new environment or situation.  Even though the experience may seem harrowing and unfamiliar, my 'just showing up' to be fully present to that moment is all I really need to do. Once I can start to observe the situation and see what it's about, I can then do more than show up. For example, I can perhaps share a moment or a laugh with someone, or bond with people. But in the interregnum, there is this 'showing up', which can sometimes be accompanied with the anxiety of not having a script or way to meaningfully perform within that experience.
    I find it quite useful to approach these situations not from an 'all or nothing' perspective. If I am all-or-nothing, I either withdraw into a shell (determined not to emerge) or I desperately reach out my many tentacles in the hopes of grabbing something (anything). I am either a turtle (in the first case) or an octopus (in the second). These extremes are perhaps to be avoided as much as possible, because they mask the fact that social life is always a tension of opposites. I don't come into a social situation completely needy, and nor do I come into it completely self-sufficient. In fact, both extremes can become impediments, because they carry so many loaded assumptions about what is to be expected or demanded from the situation itself. If I am aware that social and community life are always going to be fraught with these kinds of irreconcilable tensions (social bonding vs self-sufficiency; identity vs. fusion etc.) then I can almost make a kind of game out of them. I can be curious: how much am I willing to stay with this experience, and what kinds of feelings emerge from it? What roles do I feel most comfortable playing, and what roles scare me? Where do I fit, and where do I not fit at all? Is it possible to experience this situation as an observer who is enjoying the unfolding play of experience?
    The tension of opposites is extremely interesting, and I think it's useful to go to unknown spaces an figure out what kinds of opposites emerge. This experience also teaches people that they are much more complex and layered than they often assume. And there is something both joyful and painful about that.

The "Weight" of a Thought

   When the mind feels heavy or there is something weighing down on it, is it really the mind that is heavy? This is an interesting metaphor that would be notable to explore. For instance, we say, "a heaviness filled my heart", or "I feel a heavy weight on my shoulders", to mean that a person is overwhelmed or has too much happening at the moment. But I wonder, what is it that makes a thought 'heavy'? It can't be a physical weight (since thoughts don't have an actual measurable 'weight' to them), but then why do we experience some thoughts as being 'heavy' while other thoughts are considered 'light'?
   I think in a sense the 'heaviness' of a thought is often dependent on the time frame in which it has arisen in relation to a goal or a projected resolution. When I am first starting to do something, my thoughts about it are often jagged, raw, and full of complexities, in the sense of not knowing where the thought is going, or which path it will take eventually. Typically, with most problems, there are multiple causes and conditions which create the situation. Trying to somehow 'unravel' those particular thoughts can seem overly complex, because there are interlocking associations and connections surrounding that thought and what might have preceded it. It's only by examining the conditions as part of a whole that the thought can start to be revealed for its possibilities or for routes of action.
    In contrast, 'light' thoughts are usually the result of long processes of thinking, where one has resolved a lot of the previous causes and conditions that come to play in developing the situation at hand. They are smooth precisely because the other pieces in the puzzle seem to fit quite well, and there is not much need to adjust the situation.
   The point is: is there really any 'actual' distinction between these thoughts? I wonder if perhaps what makes a thought heavy or light is not the content of the thought itself, but rather one's attitude toward it. If I expect or even demand simplicity of thought at all times , then I am not being sensitive to the reality that thoughts can take a lot of time and effort to truly unfold. But the other point is that if I am able to see that the thought itself has no 'weight' attached to it, then I don't necessarily have to engage that thought in any way. It would be nice for me to clarify the thought in mind and learn more about how to handle the challenges arising in the thought, but perhaps it is not so necessary that I 'solve' anything in that thought. Letting the 'heaviness' of the thought be known rather than trying to make the thought into something else could go a long way in making it more manageable to deal with these kinds of thoughts.

Angst or Excitement

      The year 2017 is here, and I started to wonder: what will this year be like? In thinking this way, I believe that I am committing a common fallacy of jumping too far ahead. This is especially true considering that even with the beginning of each year, one is only required to take things one step at a time, one day at a time. I believe that this is an important consideration as the new year begins.
       In any given day, all one can ever really do is put their whole heart and mind into whatever is needed. Sometimes, one may not necessarily be needed or feel needed, but nonetheless, there is still a need to be present with that "not feeling needed" emotion. I am thinking of the example when I was in my early 20s, how I landed a temporary job at a retail chain store. I was hired to be a stock-boy, but I remember how my boss didn't think I was quick enough to do the job, and during the last week I was there, nobody seemed to have any work for me to do. In that moment, I needed to abide in the unpleasant feeling, but also to realize that there wasn't much that I could do to improve that situation by occupying myself with activities or work.
     Now, what do you think is harder to bear: too much work, or not enough? All I can remember about that situation was the feeling that not having enough work to do was such a source of anxiety. Whereas having a lot to do often entails the sense of accomplishment in doing a lot of things, having little to do can create a sense of uncertainty or even invite disengagement. But nonetheless, it is still important to abide in those feelings, in order to realize that one will not 'die' because of them. After all, not feeling needed is not a life/death situation, but is simply the result of causes and conditionsr riping in that moment.
   Whether one feels 'useful' or 'useless', these are only scenarios presented in the mind, often based on scant information. It is also based on a myth that somehow having a lot to do is somehow a greater guarantee of security or safety. In fact, having a lot to do sometimes creates the opposite problem of becoming addicted to busyness. Rather than simply resting with the fact that one cannot be occupied with something at all times, busyness invites the possibility of becoming too attached to occupying the mind, rather than opening a space to meaningfully reflect on one's situations in life.